EPOGENCY

“The unconscious counterbalances the ego. Dreams are one of the most common ways the unconscious communicates with the ego.”

—Daniel Z. Lieberman, MD. Spellbound: Modern Science, Ancient Magic, and the Hidden Potential of the Unconscious Mind.

 

Dream: The Strange Word. (June 15, 1992. Two years and nine months after my memory returned.)

I wake up and the word “epogency” comes to mind. I spell the word out. E P O G E N C Y.

 

I wondered about this strange word for many years. Was it a real word? Why was I precise in its spelling? Finally I thought to look the word up on the internet, and to my surprise, I learned it was a care manual for Yamaha Pianos. Three days later I remembered why this word was in my dream.

When I was around thirteen years old, my father took me with him to a local Yamaha dealer. My dad was a musician and wanted to buy a piano. While he talked to the salesman I was left on my own. I opened a piano bench and found a pamphlet with the word “epogency” written across the top. At the time I was trying to expand my vocabulary. I concentrated, repeating the word over and over again to help me remember. When my father and I drove away, I was disappointed with myself. I could not remember the word.

The fact that the word “epogency” showed up in my conscious after 53 years was mind blowing. It became clear there are important memories stored in my unconscious. Milton Erickson, the founder of the American Society for Clinical Hypnosis, taught that the unconscious knows more than the conscious. I now absolutely knew what I always believed: my unconscious had memories to give me, and my dreams were an important means by which I could access them.

 

MY DEBUT ON THE STAGE OF THE METROPOLITAN OPERA

When I arrived in New York in 1961, one of the items on my agenda was to learn Italian. I’d studied Spanish in college – no help for an operatic career. I would need to learn to pronounce French and German and eventually speak them. Italian was first.

My voice teacher, May Browner, hooked me up with Ada Calabrese, a member of the Metropolitan Opera chorus. She was born in Italy and was a real character. I enjoyed being around her. She was a typical Italian with dark hair and olive skin, and had an outgoing and vivacious personality. Her tiny but charming apartment was in Greenwich Village. Painting was her hobby and her home was filled with portraits of the Madonna in the style of Modigliani – long slim faces. Each Madonna had a tear on her face and they all looked exactly like Ada. This was curious to me until she told me about her “lover.”

She had been with him for many years but he would not marry her. One day she found a picture of another woman in his pocket. She said, “I was very hurt, and was crying backstage when one of the opera stars saw me. Always kind to me, he asked why I was upset. When I told him, he replied, ‘I’m sure your boyfriend loves you very much. The thing is, men can have filet mignon every night, but once in a while like to have some raw meat."  This was not helpful.”

Ada and I sat in her kitchen drinking coffee, and I learned to pronounce Italian and memorize words, but I was not a great student and languages were not my strong suit. It was not until I had an Italian boyfriend who spoke very little English that I began to speak and understand Italian as I sang it.

Ada decided to conduct our lessons backstage at the old Metropolitan Opera building when she didn’t have to be on stage singing. We met in the chorus room. There was a large wooden table in the middle of the space where we had our lessons. My overpowering memory of this room was that it felt like being in the presence of wood. Built in 1893, the building was a tinderbox.

In February of 1963, the spinto soprano, Renata Tebaldi, was to sing the title role in Francisco Cilia’s, Adriana Lecouvreur. Opera lovers were ecstatic. Renata was considered to have one of the greatest voices of all time, and she hadn’t sung in the United States for many years. She and Maria Callas were rivals, each supported by huge fan clubs who raged against each other, claiming their diva was by far the best.

It was opening night, and I was there having my weekly Italian lesson, beside myself with excitement. Renata and I would be together in the same building.

“Would you like to go down and see the opera from the wings?” Ada said.

“Could I?”

“I’ll ask."

We took the elevator down to the stage as the opera began. Ada spoke with someone and the next thing I knew, I was standing right inside the front curtain where I could see the entire stage. If I’d taken one step, I would have been visible to the audience.

The fabulous, and overwhelmingly handsome and great tenor, Franco Corelli, was on stage. He looked at me as he walked around. My heart pounded and I almost fainted.

The down stage center door opened and out walked Tebaldi. The audience went wild and the noise lasted what seemed like twenty minutes. Her opening aria, the beautiful “Io son l’umile ancella,” (“I am the humble handmaiden," which I eventually learned) began. Her voice was exquisite. Tears came to my eyes. I was on stage with the great Renata Tebaldi.

Corelli, as Maurizio, declared his love. They kissed and agreed to meet later. The act proceeded to its conclusion.

I remained in place as the scene change began. Suddenly, all hell broke loose. Someone thought to question what I was doing there.

 “Who are you?” barked the indignant stage manager.

“I’m Alice Cunningham, a student of Ada Calabrese. I’m watching the performance.”

“No, you are not. You have no right to be here. You are in the way. Get out of here.”

Ada was summoned. She was chastised and I was whisked out of the building, banned forever. And Ada could no longer teach me.

I moved on to other Italian teachers, but no one matched the wonderful Ada. She had given me my debut on the stage of the Metropolitan Opera.

I am performing the role of Liu in the Puccini Opera, Turandot, in January, 1972, in a student performance at the New York School of the Opera.

Onward and upward.